Corpses Don't Bleed
by Bookdancer
Summary: It's been a while since Barney had to defend his kid brother from bullies, but that doesn't mean he's forgotten how to do it. ft hurt Clint and a reluctantly protective Barney. Barney's POV. Clint Barton Bingo 2019


_A/N:_

_This was written for the 2019 Clint Barton Bingo, prompt: Barney Barton._

_This is also rated T for the Bartons' full swear jar, and it takes place at an undisclosed time in the universe, but Clint is already an Avenger._

_Thanks to queenofmoons67 (tumblr handle) for beta-ing._

_I do not own the Avengers, and I've also cross-posted this fic to ao3 (Bookdancer) and tumblr (bookdancerfics)._

_I hope you all enjoy!_

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Corpses Don't Bleed

In the end there were a few things that came together to make sure that Barney was where he was when shit went down.

One, he was supposed to be pulling a retrieval job for Wilson Fisk, arguably the most powerful crime lord in the five boroughs. The object, a multi-billion dollar painting, had gone missing the day before he planned to take it.

Two, a few years back Barney had screwed over his work partner and escaped with more than a few thousand dollars in cash. Said work partner, a man by the name of Tommy Devlin, had been after Barney ever since. There was no such as thing as thickness between thieves when one had stolen from the other.

Three, Barney had shit luck, and he needed to stop listening to men named Tommy Devlin when they said they were holding the thing he cared for most hostage.

Barney stepped into the world's darkest alley, sparing one glance up to the broken streetlight. The glass was cracked, and dirty, but his family was known for their good eyes, and he was pretty sure that was a bullet hole in the glass.

He turned back to the showdown at the other end of the alley. Tommy Devlin stood beneath a fire escape, hidden in darkness, but nothing could disguise the outline of a handgun held against another man's head.

"Still not over the cliché's, huh, Devlin?" Barney called. "And for the record, I don't care for my brother."

Said brother, the one with a gun to his head, had obviously been tied to a chair in front of Devlin, but although it didn't look like he was unconscious, he still didn't react.

Despite himself and his own words, Barney frowned. If there was anything he knew about his brother besides the whole Avengers thing, it was that he had a smart mouth that never knew when to shut up.

"And you're sure of that?" Devlin called.

Barney only snorted. "Duh. Haven't talked to the kid in months. Haven't seen him for longer than that. Now, if you'll excuse me—"

He turned to leave, prepared to let the Avengers handle the rescuing this time around. Clint could, and would, hang on till then. Barney didn't need to get himself killed saving his brother when professionals were on the way. All the same, he instinctively kept his guard up toward Devlin, and in that same moment the gun rang out and shrapnel sprayed from the brick next to his head. Barney ducked, covering his face with his arms even as he spun to face Devlin. Fury burned in his chest, and he could practically feel his face turn red, heat overtaking him as his anger bloomed. At the other end of the alley, Clint was finally moving, squirming against the bonds holding him in place even as he shouted obscenities. Whether they were for Devlin or Barney himself, Barney didn't know.

"I didn't say you could leave," Devlin called. "I imagine you'd at least be interested in this?"

A light clicked on, Devlin deftly handling a flashlight along with the gun. The light shone past Clint to illuminate the very painting Barney had been tasked to retrieve.

He cursed under his breath. Although he was all for leaving his brother to be rescued by the Avengers when they finally came looking, he couldn't very well leave the painting in Devlin's hands. He had been small time when Barney bailed two years before, a major part of why Barney left him behind in the first place. But judging by the state of things, he'd obviously found his guts since then. If Barney wanted to get out of his next meeting with Fisk with his head still on his shoulders, he needed that painting.

It leaned against the apartment building behind it, and as Barney eyed it he was also reminded of their proximity to people, as well as the gunshot that had gone off barely a minute before. Someone must have called the police… Barney had to retrieve the painting, and he needed to do it then and there.

"Alright," Barney called, turning to properly face Devlin. He palmed the knife tucked against his low middle back. "What do you want?"

For the first time, Devlin's face twisted. "What do you think? I want my money back, Barton."

"Okay," Barney said. "I can do that. Just give me the painting, and I can get the money to you at an arranged time and place after this…"

Devlin brought the gun back to Clint's head. "You're lying."

Barney snorted. "Yeah, Devlin, sure. I'm fucking lying. I may be a Barton, but I'm not that stupid. You don't cross Wilson Fisk. You give me the painting, I get to keep my head, you get your money back."

Sirens sounded in the background, and Devlin jerked, the mouth of the gun bumping into Clint's ear. Clint growled something that sounded suspiciously like _fuck off_, but Devlin obviously wasn't listening, as he dropped the flashlight in favor of pulling another gun out to point at Barney.

"You called the cops?!" Devlin yelled.

"_What_?" Barney asked. "No, are you stupid? You shot at me without a silencer, of course cops are gonna show up. Now give me the fucking painting and —"

Devlin fired the gun, or both of them, Barney didn't know, and he didn't plan on sticking around long enough to find out. He had to actually be alive to care about Fisk taking his head off. He dove for refuge behind a dumpster and his side collided with the brick apartment wall painfully, but a quick body check confirmed he hadn't been hit by a bullet.

As the gunshots' echo faded, Clint's voice stormed in, loud as he yelled. His words slurred a little, most likely because of a concussion.

"— let me go home, man, I just want to sleep!" Clint said, and Barney couldn't help but snort. That was his baby brother, all right.

Barney glanced around the edge of the dumpster to see Devlin with his back to him, collecting the painting and flashlight. Barney could only see one gun in his hands. Clint was still complaining, steadily growing louder even as he wobbled in the chair.

Six stories up, a light blinked on, and Devlin froze. Yet another reason Barney had left him behind, but Barney could appreciate the bad habit helping him out. He threw himself forward, racing to the other end of the alley, and Devlin unfroze.

Light glinted across a puddle next to Clint's chair.

Barney took a mis-step.

He fumbled, got his feet together, but his gaze was still on that puddle and even running it took him too damn long to get to the chair.

Devlin turned; Barney was so close he could see his eyes grow wide. The gun came up.

Even in the dark, Barney could see a drop land in that damned puddle. It was red, a puddle should never be red but this one was and Barney knew if he tracked the drop's path he would find a similarly colored stain on his kid brother. He didn't know where he would find it, but somehow that didn't matter.

All that mattered was that Clint kept breathing, and corpses didn't bleed. They didn't yell insults at the men who shot them, either, and Barney almost wished he could pay attention to what Clint was calling Devlin, if for nothing else but good fodder for another time.

Barney dove for the gun.

He collided with Devlin just as another gunshot sounded, impossibly loud next to his ears, but his shoulder dug into Devlin's gut and they both went down hard. Something cracked on the pavement, and Barney really hoped it wasn't himself.

He shook his head, trying to clear it even as he sat up. He was just focusing on the blood pooling under Devlin's head when Clint's voice filtered back in.

"— never told me you played football. Was that before or after the circus? Little league or pickup games at Villains r Us?"

Barney rolled his eyes. "Football doesn't have little league, genius. And I'm not saying I need a thank you, but a little acknowledgement wouldn't hurt."

"Say something maybe?" Clint asked, and Barney finally turned to look at him, ready to snap before he noticed the lack of purple in Clint's ears. No hearing aids; either Devlin had taken them or Clint had been grabbed without them.

Barney lifted his hands and, although it had been years, managed to haltingly sign out what he had said.

"Oh, _right_," Clint said, and Barney frowned. "Thank you so much for abandoning me for the wonderful life of a thief. How could I ever repay you."

"Stop bitching," Barney told him, signing in sharp strokes. He thumbed Clint's cheekbone roughly, eyeing the black eye he could already see forming. "Where'd he hit you?"

Clint snorted. "You mean the first time or the fifth?"

Barney shot him a look.

"The thigh, shouldn't kill me."

Barney pulled the knife from its holster and swiftly cut through the ropes tying Clint to the chair. As Clint rubbed his hands together and Barney poked at the bullet wound, the police sirens grew even louder. They would reach them in less than a minute.

Clint pressed down on his own wound, this time giving Barney a look.

"Go on," Clint said.

"What?" Barney asked, lifting his hands, palms up, even as he emphasized his confusion.

"You can't be here." Clint gave him a weak grin. "I can't hear the sirens clearly, but they're there, and that means they're close. The police are coming, and you know it."

Barney glanced toward the sound of the sirens, then back at Clint.

"There's an exit wound," he signed. "Keep pressure on it."

Clint nodded exaggeratingly. "I know, I know, now go."

"Give me a head start," Barney continued. He grabbed the painting in his left hand, leaving his right free for the last one-handed sign. "See you."

He turned, ready to walk away, when Clint spoke up again.

"Barney, hey… thanks."

Without even turning around, Barney flicked his middle finger up, then jogged from the alley. He had a painting to deliver to Wilson Fisk.

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_A/N:_

_In regards to Clint, I am an able-bodied author writing a character with a disability. Please, if you feel like I messed up in any way, tell me and I will do my best to fix it._

_Also, I have a tumblr account, bookdancerfics, so please feel free to drop by. Sometimes I post writing updates._

_And, finally, please comment here! I love hearing what people think_


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